


It's Hard to Explain

by machumachumachu, TongueTiedandSqueamish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Slow To Update, eventually, hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6279568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machumachumachu/pseuds/machumachumachu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTiedandSqueamish/pseuds/TongueTiedandSqueamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The headline runs: "ALEXANDER HAMILTON AND THOMAS JEFFERSON ARE IN A SECRET RELATIONSHIP???"</p><p>Hamilton and Jefferson were offended by the very idea of it. Why was everyone so insistent on them admitting something that wasn't true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Hard to Explain

**To: SHOWTIMEEE**

_john_

_john cmon man im dying there is no ennui i have experienced greater than this line_

_if i survive ill be a hero john ppl will look at me and say DAMN that a. ham sure beat the odds_

_JOOOOHNHNNNNNNN_

_johnny boy_

_i know u hate that nickname come on strike out at me in anger im going through orwellian psychological torture_

_life losing meaning_

_time slipping away_

_woe is me john woe is me_

_woe is any who are stuck behind some middle aged lady and her two obnoxious fuck wad kids as they buy out the whole store_

_i see ramune in their cart john and they are the pastiest piles of whiteness i have ever seen_

_the small one keeps making beeping noises and announcing he is a robot plz kill me_

_lord in heaven be merciful_

_JOOOOOOOHNNNNNNNN LISTEN TO MEEEEEEEE STOP SAVING OTHER ORPHANS AND START SAVING THIS ONE!!!!_

 

Unfortunately, barely a minute and a half had passed. Alexander held out for a reply for a solid thirty seconds, then blew a puff of air out of his nose and slid his phone into his jacket pocket. John was at home, probably fanning himself over some blogger’s pie-in-the-sky proposal for a better society and staring at the ceiling as his thoughts slowly slotted into place, and if John wasn’t replying, then Hamilton doubted anyone else would. Lafayette either replied immediately or three days later, Mulligan reliably replied thirty to forty-five minutes after receiving a text, and Alexander hadn’t argued with Burr for over two weeks, so he had no reason for pestering him that wouldn’t end with an over-polite brush-off.

Thirty seconds grinded by, and the young hijabi behind the counter scanned the items with the usual quickness of cashiers fearful of a customer’s agitation, but she paused with every other item to smile and laugh at whatever the older of the two kids said. God, he hoped they weren’t flirting with each other. He might be stuck here for years then. Tiring of staring daggers into the mother’s back and ignoring the squinty-eyed look from the older kid, his eyes darted over the aisle of cheap snacks, even cheaper trinkets, and—jackpot: the washed-out magazine rack, where the glossy covers and huge blocky lettering desperately attempted to garner interest in the latest of the world’s scummy gossip. Alexander smirked, adjusted his handful of items, and wandered over, glancing behind him to make sure no one contested his place in line.

“Juicy” sex tips, scantily-clad models, “three dollar, thirty minute” recipes, cringeworthy headshots of disheveled celebrities, “ten tips” to anything from meditation to golfing, the plastic-looking food. Alexander thumbed the cover of _People_ and marveled at the gullibility of the average American, that the internet existed and yet these magazines clung on like robust viruses. He allowed himself to grin and think _Jennifer Aniston did what now_ —

And then he saw the latest issue of the _National Enquirer_.

Garbage even amongst garbage, the dishrag insulted the term “dishrag” itself, as its pages fell apart if you used it for anything more productive than holding together tawdry lies. And this week’s headline?

“POLITICAL ENEMIES HAMMIE AND JEFFY: THEIR SHOCKING SECRET! pg. 22” and a slightly too grainy picture of Hamilton and Jefferson walking across the grounds of Monticello towards the stable. Alexander had looked up and said, “I bet you haven’t seen any of your precious thoroughbreds for months, just scold the stable boy every once in a while and name each new horse after your own accomplishments.” And Jefferson had laid a hand on Alexander’s shoulder for a moment, one moment, and leaned down to smirk in his face. “I think you’re just jealous that horses with a brain the size of a pea have a better pedigree than you, Hamilton.” The photo blurred Jefferson’s face the slightest bit, so his malicious sneer appeared affectionate, almost eager, and Alexander’s stomach dropped and then proceeded to swoop into an abrupt anger as he snatched the thing from its shelf.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he murmured to himself, staring at the image. This was taken on Jefferson’s private estate – his private estate! His security team needed to be fired if they couldn’t keep a single clumsy reporter from gallivanting around the grounds – fuck! Was this serious? Six months ago, Alexander had publicly shouted, “Fuck you!” in Jefferson’s face and they had nearly come to blows. _Is this serious?_

In his peripheral vision, he saw the girl at the register wave goodbye to the mother and the kids, and he snapped out of it enough to glower his way to the counter and lay out his items on the conveyor belt. His fingers itched, curled into a fist and then relaxed, bounced on his thigh. Every mundane detail sharpened and pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, like the flat of a knife pressed to his skin. The family moving away, the younger blonde boy and his bottle-brunette sister dance-walking out of the store, the tiny, overworked whir of the conveyor belt, the tuft of pink and purple hair poking out from the cashier’s hijab, every murmur and laugh of every passerby. It reminded him, jarringly, of arriving in New York City for the first time. He handed the cashier a few twenties, not quite remembering the number she had read off for the total, and when she held up the filthy piece of libelous trash that was the _National Enquirer_ – _his_ _National Enquirer_ now – and asked, “Do you want this in a bag?” he mumbled his quickest, “Yes, please.”

She probably recognized him. He could see the assumptions forming in the slight curious raising of her eyebrows. _At least she’s not looking at me like I’m stupid._

They thanked each other and wished each other a good day. Alexander high-tailed it to his car while trying to look like he wasn’t high-tailing it to his car, groceries and the Unmentionable in hand. He drove home. He put away the groceries – John looked up from his contemplation for a moment to smile his sweet smile and say, “Hey, thanks for remembering to get me those mango drinks I like!” and Alexander smiled back reflexively. “You’re welcome.” Keeping the Unmentionable hidden from his roommate’s sight, Alexander stole away to his office and bedroom and threw the thing on his bed. He whipped out his phone, opened his contacts, scrolled down to Idealistic Francophile Fuck, and hit “call” before he started crawling out of his skin with the need to scream.

Jefferson, as always, was the perfect target.

~~~~~

Jefferson’s phone vibrated on his desk. The default vibration told him it was Hamilton, as everyone else, even Hamilton’s friends and the uninspiring piece of cardboard that was Aaron Burr, had a custom vibration pattern. He finished the sentence he was writing, then checked the screen: “Monarchist calling . . .” Hamilton. He debated rejecting it, but Hamilton typically only called about important matters. (Hamilton texted him or bothered him on twitter when he had new bones to pick or new insults to share.)

He sighed, put down his pen, and picked up.

“First of all, motherfucker, get some better fucking security at your fancy-ass plantation house. Fire them, threaten them with slow death, waterboard them, I don’t give a fuck, but make sure—”

The sudden barrage was loud but expected. Holding his phone a few precautionary inches from his ear, Jefferson tried, “Hamilton, shut up for five sec—” and gritted his teeth when he was shouted over.

“Second of all – bye John, I’ll be back after I rip Jefferson a new one! – _Second_ of all, where are you right now, because I am going to be breaking twenty-six traffic laws getting there to show you this—” Hamilton’s strangled outburst sounded like he had hacked up a dozen furious wasps “—baseless, indolent, insensate _knavery_ —”

“I’m at Madison and I’s New York place,” Jefferson supplied, a bid to derail Hamilton before the SAT vocab dissolved into the self-righteous, hyper-intelligent language of his essays. “Hamilton, send me a damn email. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Stay there, and don’t think I’m above breaking in if you don’t answer the door!” The line went dead, and Jefferson tossed his phone away, shoving down the urge to hurl it at the wall. That would be childish and oversensitive, as if these were the early days of their famous feud, when the mere sight of Hamilton’s bright, overconfident face brought his blood to a boil, with the flaunting of his elitist principles and flouting of any sense of courtesy.

Jefferson refocused on the letter to his mother, who was the fan-waving, old-fashioned type of Southern woman who scorned even the convenience of air conditioning (except for the summer months), let alone the uniform digital fonts of an email, and thus would refuse to read anything of Thomas’s unless it was hand-written. While debating whether to go further into detail about his recent reading, four rapid knocks came from the front door, and Jefferson startled. After taking a moment to smooth the lapels of his jacket, his phone vibrated once, a text notification, and he checked it while striding quickly towards the door. Had James forgotten his key? Had something gone wrong? He always knocked twice, firm but polite raps.

 

**From: Jemmy**

_Sorry, Thomas, I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll be back with lunch in about twenty minutes._

 

Oh, God, that meant—

“Jefferson, open up already, holy shit!”

Jefferson pocketed his phone and threw open the door, where Hamilton stood fidgeting, rolling and unrolling a magazine in his hands and scowling. “Hamilton, how the hell did you get up here? You need a key to get in the building.”

Hamilton barreled past, waving his hand in dismissal and nearly smacking Jefferson in the face in the process. “Peggy let me in, since she lives here apparently, which – why do the _Schuyler sisters_ have separate apartments but you’re sharing one with Madison?”

Jefferson ignored him and snapped, “What was so important you had to impose upon me in my apartment, Hamilton?”

Hamilton unrolled the magazine and shoved it in his face.

The _National Enquirer_ , with a bad photo of the two of them on the front.

Jefferson barked a laugh and knocked away the shorter man’s hand. “You’re not serious?”

“You’re not angry?” Hamilton asked in disbelief, throwing his arms up.

“No.”

“Well, I’m furious!” He chucked the magazine away dramatically, curling his lip in disgust.

“Uh-huh, I can see that,” Jefferson drawled, torn between laughing at him and choking the life out of him. “Meanwhile, I have neither the time nor the gaucherie to deal with rumors from a trashy excuse of tabloid. If you only came over to melt down over the opinions of the willfully ignorant, then show’s over, get out.”

“They think we’re _dating_.”

“So?” Jefferson said, unimpressed. “They also think David Bowie was a lizard man and that J.F.K. is still alive. People will think what they’ll think, and the best you can do is not react to it. You react, and you give it validity. ‘Their bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth, and thus do they of wisdom by indirections find directions out,’ to paraphrase the Bard.”

“ _Wisdom_?” Hamilton sneered. “And _Hamlet_ , really?”

“Better than _Macbeth_ ,” Jefferson sniped back. “And a lack of knowledge does not equate a lack of wisdom.”

Hamilton’s body tilted forward, his fingers twitching as if for a pen, his feet shuffling and rearranging in the expectation of a fight. “There are different types of wisdom and knowledge. Some wisdom is innate and some is learned and in the day-to-day lives of people—”

“If they’re not wise, then ignore them, Hamilton! This isn’t a blind mob knocking down your door, it’s one lucky reporter with a camera writing a sleazy article. Get out already! It’s Saturday and I’m trying to get some actual work done.”

Hamilton stayed solid for a moment, mirroring Jefferson’s glare back, and then rocked back on his heels, kept his head tossed high, and scooped his thrown magazine from the floor. “Have a good weekend, Jefferson,” he said venomously.

“You, too, Hamilton,” he mocked back.

Hamilton slammed the door like the petulant child he was, and Jefferson went back to his study to finish the letter.

A few minutes later, he heard the front door open and close, and Madison appeared with his arms full of Chinese take-out. Jefferson shoved his papers to the side and they unpacked the food over the desk. “Why, pray tell, was Alexander Hamilton strutting down the hallway like a peacock with a copy of some tabloid? He didn’t even give me a scathing glance.” He delicately dipped a dumpling in soy sauce.

“Apparently, the esteemed _National Enquirer_ thinks he and I are a couple because he spent the day at Monticello last week. He came over to throw a hissy fit, and then didn’t want to hear my advice. I did tell you about what happened at Monticello, didn’t I?”

James’ mouth bowed downwards, not quite a frown, more a crease of dissatisfaction. “You mentioned that he insulted your trinity and my favorite wallpaper.”

“My dining room walls, too. The man buys designer but he has no taste. And to add insult to injury, he tried to tell me Julius Caesar was the greatest man to have ever lived. Julius Caesar!” Jefferson snorted around his pork-fried rice. “It’s about time something knocks him off his high horse.”

Madison agreed, and they finished their meals in comfortable silence.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born with the idea of "What if Hamilton and Jefferson had to fake date?" and we have been trying to somehow wrangle up a plot to necessitate that ever since. It's like trying to wrestle two angry cats into a bath.  
> machumachumachu writes the rough drafts (she's "got a lotta brains but no polish" to quote her and absolutely no one else), and then TongueTiedAndSqueamish writes the final drafts. (And these end notes. Hiya!)
> 
> Also, why yes, that's a reference to TongueTiedAndSqueamish's fic Gotta Be in Monticello, which did happen in this world, except without Jefferson giving Hamilton a black eye. (I think the headlines would be crying, " _Abusive_ Secret Relationship" then.)


End file.
